I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

connections.”
    I sat down on the stairs. “What’s he got to do with Chris’s murder?”
    There was a pause, and it occurred to me that it could be absolutely nothing.
    “It’s complicated.”
    “And I’m not important enough to know.”
    “No, it’s…” Luke sighed. “Okay. He’s a big businessman. New York, Sydney, Hong Kong, London, Frankfurt. Owns Wrightbank…?”
    “I think I’ve heard of him,” I lied.
    “People have speculated for a while that not all of his rather vast fortune was earned by entirely legal or morally correct means. He has been known to buy up ailing banks, sack everyone and merge the money into his own account.”
    “Nice.”
    “It is for him. He’s also really stingy. Never travels first class, loves to use low-cost where he can.”
    I had sneaking suspicion I knew where this was going and laid my head down on the stair above. “He’s flying Ace tomorrow, isn’t he?”
    “Oh, you’re so smart . Yes. The 348 to Rome. And the reason he’s flying out there, we think, is that he’s going to buy up a huge stake in Ace Airlines.”
    I waited, but Luke didn’t say anything else. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why am I following him?”
    “Following who?” Chalker asked, sneaking up behind me. “Hey, Soph, new phone?”
    I glared at him. “Fuck off.”
    “Since when did you get a picture phone? I thought you had that cheapo thing.”
    “It’s not cheap,” I said, and I could hear Luke laughing down the phone. “I spend a fortune on texting…”
    “Who are you talking to?” Chalker and Luke asked at the same time, and I paused deliciously.
    “My boyfriend,” I said to both, and legged it outside.
    Luke was silent for a while. “You have a boyfriend?”
    “Didn’t I tell you?”
    “No. It wasn’t in your file.”
    “My file?”
    “Your Ace file. How do you think I knew where you lived or what your school results were? I’d never have hired someone who failed all her GCSEs.”
    I took in a deep breath and let it out. Of course he’d investigated me. There wasn’t anything to get mad about. Especially since it was his job. And now mine, too.
    “I don’t think they keep notes on people’s romantic lives,” I said.
    Luke made a small noise that seemed to mean, “Well, they should.”
    “Are you jealous?” I asked slowly, with great glee.
    “Jealous? Hell, no. You’re a nutcase. People send you dead fingers.”
    I grinned and hugged myself. This was great.
    “I didn’t think you’d be jealous of the finger.”
    Luke was silent. Through the window, Chalker started making faces at me. I ignored him and turned to the windy garden instead.
    “Look, can you just keep an eye out for this guy tomorrow?” Luke said eventually, sounding annoyed. “I’ll send you a photo of him. No baggage belt stuff this time.”
    And with that he was gone, and I felt very pleased with myself.

Chapter Nine
     
    Next morning I was woken again by the combined forces of Tammy and Norma Jean. I got up, got dressed and went back to my flat to take a shower and sort out my Ace uniform. I always hated going back to work after my days off. Hated it. I seemed to spend the whole time going, “Only two days ’til I have to go back. Only one day. Only twelve hours.” It was like the end of a very short, unfulfilling holiday.
    Still. There were no more bloody envelopes on the doormat and no one had disturbed the tapes I put on the door (roll over James Bond), so I figured the day was starting reasonably well. Now for a little bit of slight illegality.
    I dressed in my most scary outfit of leather jeans, heeled boots and ripped punk T-shirt, added a biker jacket and lots of eyeliner, and dragged Ted up to Smith’s Guns.
    “I need a hand gun,” I said to Joe, who looked me up and down twice. “Something small and discreet. A silencer, too.”
    I was pleased with myself for adding this. It made me sound like I knew what I was talking about.
    “Sure,” he said. “Where’s your licence?”
    “I don’t need a licence,” I flashed my warrant card, “I have this.”
    He took it, looked it over and sniggered at the photo, which Alexa had screen-captured when I signed all my confidentiality things.
    “This is a warrant card,” he said. “It’s not a right to bear arms.”
    “It says I am a government agent,” I said. “I can carry whatever I like and use it in whatever means I see fit to halt the, erm, disruption of, uh, evil.” Eh?
    Joe looked me over